Читать книгу The Stars are Dark - Peter Cheyney - Страница 5

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Fells finished his whisky and soda as Greeley came into the Box of Compasses. Greeley looked casually around the bar, showing not the slightest sign of recognition when he saw Fells and Villiers.

Villiers was sitting at the little table on the left of the fire, drinking Guinness. He was wearing a bowler hat perched rather incongruously on the top of a round head. Villiers looked like the sort of man who would be a coal agent or an insurance agent or anything like that—the sort of man you wouldn’t notice.

Fells, leaning against the bar, lit a cigarette. He was thinking about Greeley. He was thinking Greeley was pretty good—a funny, odd fellow Greeley—a regular Cockney—but with a peculiar sense of something that you couldn’t put your finger on—utterly reliable. He drew the cigarette smoke down into his lungs.

Fells had a long thin face, and when you looked at it the first time you thought that it was a very sad face. The deep ironic lines about the mouth, the bony structure of the jaw and the peculiar thinness at the side of the eyes gave you an odd impression of asceticism. When you looked again you noticed the groups of finely cut humour lines at the edge of the eyes. When he smiled—a rare occurrence—his eyes lighted up. Then it seemed as if, for a moment, he had forgotten something—something that he wanted badly to forget—as if he had obtained a few seconds’ respite from a ghost that haunted him. He was tall and thin. He had long legs, slim hips. His shoulders were good, and underneath the superficial appearance of laziness you could sense a great energy—an energy born of frustration or impatience or something. Fells might have been anything, but first of all he might have been an actor. He had the ability to blend into a background, and here in the tap-room of the Box of Compasses he seemed to be completely a part of the scene.

Villiers, with his bowler hat, drinking Guinness at the far side; and Greeley, his drink ordered, leaning against the bar counter, casting an appraising eye on the buxom barmaid—all of them somehow, and in some strange fashion, blended into the atmospherics of the Box of Compasses. An odd process, but one which is possible to men whose nervous system is finely attuned to atmospherics.

Massanay came in. The barmaid, who was wiping the zinc counter, looked at him for a moment. She wondered at the influx of business. She thought Massanay looked nice. Then she looked at Fells in the quick, appraising manner of her kind. She thought Fells looked a little odd and sad—the sort of man who has been pushed around by life and doesn’t know what to do about it.

Fells thought. He thought that he would like to go to the Palladium; that he would like to see Tommy Trinder. He had seen a poster earlier in the day. Mr. Trinder’s face gazed at him invitingly from the poster. Mr. Trinder was saying: “Oh, you lucky people!” The suggestion conveyed itself into the mind of Fells that by going to the Palladium, by seeing Tommy Trinder, he could be lucky! He might secure for a little while happiness. He might be amused. Definitely, he must go and see Tommy Trinder. Then he thought that when he had the chance he would speak to Greeley about it. First of all Greeley was certain to have been there. Greeley went everywhere. He had an extreme ability for enjoyment. Only Greeley could enjoy things such as—Fells sighed. Then he smiled a little whimsically. After all there was only one Greeley.

He ordered another whisky and soda. He began to think about Tangier. The process was pleasurable. Not always did he allow himself to think about Tangier—just occasionally. When things were a little bad, or getting to be a little exciting, or there was a chance of any particular unhappiness in the near future, then Fells would think about Tangier.

A picture of her would come to him. He would visualize the soft chestnut hair framing her beautiful oval face. He would think about her face, of the carved beautiful lines of her mouth. Thinking about Tangier brought a sense of peace or exhilaration, whichever was required at that moment.

The barmaid brought his drink. Fells drank it slowly. Then he turned his wrist over and looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. He wore his wrist-watch on the inside of his wrist because it had a luminous dial and if it were worn on the outside of the wrist it might be seen in the darkness. Fells and Greeley and Villiers and the rest of them always thought of little things like that. They realized they weren’t little things; they realized they were very big things. Important things like life—if it was important—sometimes depended on such little things.

He put his cigarette stub in the ashtray on the bar. He said good-night to the barmaid, put his hands into the pockets of his old navy-blue raincoat. He went out of the bar.

Greeley ordered another half-pint of bitter. When it was brought to him he looked into the tankard rather as if he were expecting to read something in the brown surface of the beer. He was thinking that it would only be necessary for him to allow Fells a couple of minutes—that would be enough. He turned his head slightly as Villiers—his empty glass in his hand—came to the bar. Villiers put his glass down on the bar. He said:

“Ten Players, please, miss!”

The girl brought the cigarettes. Villiers put the shilling on the bar and turned away. As he did so his foot touched Greeley’s accidentally.

Greeley was inclined to be artistic. He said: “Go easy, that’s my blinkin’ foot.”

Villiers said: “Sorry!”

Greeley said: “That’s all bleedin’ well, but I got a corn on that foot. I’ve tried everything for that corn that a man can think of—plasters and Gawd knows what. But it’s still there. Funny thing is, on a night like this, when it’s a bit cold, and there’s maybe a spot of rain hangin’ about, that corn starts sproutin’ like hell. The slightest thing and the pain goes right through me. It’s useful in a way though—it always tells me what the weather’s going to be like.”

Villiers said: “Does it? That must be very nice for you.”

Greeley said: “You’re not being sarcastic, are you?”

Villiers shook his head. “I wouldn’t be sarcastic about a man who’s got a corn,” he said. “Have a look at me—do I look the sort of person who’d be sarcastic about a thing like that?”

Greeley said: “Well, I can’t say you do and I can’t say you don’t.”

Villiers said: “Well, that’s all right.”

Greeley drained his tankard. He said: “If it’s O.K. with you it’s O.K. with me.”

Villiers opened the packet of cigarettes; took one out. He lit it and looked at the glowing end for a moment; then he said casually: “Well, good-night.” He went out.

Massanay, who had ordered a gin and tonic, put the empty glass down on the mantelpiece. He held out his hands to the fire for a moment; then walked over to the door. As he pushed aside the black-out curtain he said to the barmaid:

“I take the left fork for Halliday—don’t I?”

She nodded. “Over to the right of the copse,” she said. “An’ take care you don’t fall in the sewage pit.”

Massanay nodded. Greeley, lighting a cigarette, heard the door close.

After a minute he said: “I suppose you shut at ten o’clock.”

The barmaid nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “It’s a good thing too. There’s very little business doing around here these days.”

Greeley said: “I should think so. Funny sort of place to have a pub—sort of deserted, isn’t it?”

She said: “It used not to be. There used to be a lot of traffic on this road before the war was on. Most of the lorries found it easier to come round this way. We used to do lunches.” She sighed. “I wonder if those days will ever come back,” she said.

Greeley said: “I wonder! Well, I’ll be goin’.”

She said suddenly: “You’d better be careful if you’re going over the cliff path. The wind’s strong to-night. Two years ago a man was blown over.”

Greeley said: “Ah! But I’m not going over the cliff path.”

“Well, you’ll have a long walk to the town,” said the girl.

He said: “I know. I like walking.” He thought: “To hell with this woman. Now I’ve got to walk down the road to the town just in case she’s looking out of the window, and it’s a clear night so I’ll have to walk quite a way.” He put the box of cigarettes in his pocket. He said: “Well, good-night. Sleep well.” He went out.